Chapter Text
People rarely talked about what had happened nearly two years ago. It felt both far away and uncomfortably close—like a shadow always just behind them, stretching long through the corridors of their lives. No one questioned Nicholas’ return, not openly. Perhaps it was because most didn’t care to stir the dust, or perhaps it was because Euijoo, silently and stubbornly, made it clear that questioning Nicholas meant questioning him, too. And no one really wanted to do that.
So, life resumed. Mostly. The rhythm of classes, of exams and breakfast chatter and Quidditch matches filled the days. But not everything was as it had been. The war—though mostly unspoken—lingered in the air like an enchantment gone stale. The castle felt older than usual, its shadows longer, its corridors darker, as if they were swallowing secrets no one was brave enough to name.
It was getting harder to pretend nothing had changed. Kept changing.
At the start of the year, Professor McGonagall had sat them down in her usual brisk way to discuss their futures—careers, apprenticeships, N.E.W.T. prospects. Maki, unsurprisingly, had it all figured out. His grades were impeccable, his dedication steady as clockwork. One night, as they sprawled across a common room couch and shared a tin of slightly stale biscuits, Maki admitted, a little shyly, that he wanted to be an alchemist.
It made perfect sense. The discipline, the patience, the desire to make sense of things that didn’t always want to be understood. Euijoo had smiled, genuinely proud.
Later that same evening, as the library emptied out with quiet yawns, Nicholas had looked up from his books and whispered that he wanted to become an arithmancer.
Euijoo blinked, “A what?”
“Arithmancer,” Nicholas repeated, a touch amused.
Euijoo shifted, leaning slighty closer across the table. “You’re going to have to say that, like... three more times.”
Nicholas laughed softly, the sound barely audible over the sound of pages being turned and the distant wind outside the tower. “Arithmancer. It’s like magical theory, mixed with logic. Numbers. Symbols. Precision.”
Euijoo stared at him for a long moment, then leaned back against his chair, grinning at nothing in particular. “You would pick the one thing that sounds like homework and nightmares.”
“I like it,” Nicholas said simply. “It makes sense. It’s quiet.”
Euijoo didn’t say anything to that—not then. But he thought about it long after they left the silence of the library. About the things that made sense. About the things they were still trying to make sense of.
“So, what about you?” Nicholas asked, his voice low as it echoed faintly down the quiet corridor.
They were walking side by side, slowly, their footsteps soft on the stone floor. It had become a quiet ritual between them—Nicholas walking Euijoo back to Gryffindor Tower at the end of each night. A gentle, unspoken thing that neither of them ever missed.
“Me?” Euijoo blinked, caught off guard. The question felt too big, too heavy for how softly it was asked. “I dunno,” he said after a pause, attempting a laugh. “I’ll have to pass the course first.”
“You will,” Nicholas said easily, with a warmth that made Euijoo’s chest ache a little. Their fingers brushed—just once, barely there, like a secret—and neither of them moved away. “And then, what?”
Euijoo exhaled through his nose, gaze falling to the floor. He hated that he didn’t have an answer. Everyone else seemed to know. Maki had mapped out his whole life by now, and Taki—despite McGonagall’s exasperated sighs—had committed himself to becoming an Auror. Harua wanted to teach. Even Yuma, who always seemed like he was floating through life, had a plan to travel east and study magical creatures.
But Euijoo? Every time he tried to picture his future, it came to him in pieces. Like fogged glass. A shape here, a sound there. Blurry edges. No details.
Just one thing—he never saw himself alone.
Not even in his darkest moments, not even in the dreams that left him sweating and shaken—he was never alone in them. Nicholas was always there. Sometimes just a presence, sometimes laughing, sometimes reaching for him through the noise. But always there.
He didn’t say any of that out loud.
“I keep trying to imagine it,” Euijoo said instead, his voice softer now, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. “Ten years from now. Me, somewhere. Older. I dunno. It's all… blank."
Nicholas didn’t answer right away. Just the steady sound of their footsteps.
Then, “That’s alright,” he said finally. “Everyone starts with nothing in mind.”
Euijoo gave a small, helpless laugh. “I guess.”
They turned a corner, the corridor growing narrower, the torches flickering in their brackets. For a moment, Euijoo thought about Fuma—how he’d left last year, just vanished, even though he was smart, even though teachers had expected him to go far. He’d walked away from it all. Said he needed to prepare. Said there were bigger things coming, things no one wanted to talk about yet. Things that still waited at the edge of their conversations, like a storm sitting just beyond the horizon.
Euijoo remembered how quiet the common room had been that night. How angry he’d been when he found out. Not because Fuma left, but because he understood why he had.
“I dunno, I’ll do something,” Euijoo said at last, giving a half-hearted shrug as he tried to brush off the weight of Nicholas’ words.
Nicholas stopped walking. Euijoo nearly kept going, confused, until he noticed where they were—right in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. They’d reached Gryffindor Tower without even realizing it, without a single word about turning back.
Nicholas turned to face him, his brows raised in that infuriatingly perfect way that made Euijoo feel both exposed and fond at once. “How come you’re so sure about everyone else’s future but not your own?” he asked. His tone was light, teasing—but there was something real underneath it. A note of worry, or maybe hope.
“We’ll be adults soon,” Nicholas went on, softer now, “you should have something to—”
“Oh my God, not you too,” Euijoo groaned, half-laughing, half-pleading, and he stepped forward, catching Nicholas’ hand and tugging him close.
Their fingers laced easily—like they always did, like they had learned each other’s shapes long before they ever met—and Euijoo squeezed them gently. “I’ve still got time, don’t I?” he asked, leaning in so their foreheads brushed. “A whole damn year.”
Nicholas let out a soft exhale, not quite a laugh, but close. “Yeah,” he said, though it sounded more like reluctant agreement than true belief. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go. He never did.
They leaned into each other in the quiet shadow of the corridor, hidden from the watchful eyes of the portrait, and stole a kiss. Just a brief press of mouths, warm and lingering in the hush of stone and candlelight. It was soft, familiar, and still somehow dizzying. Euijoo wanted to stay there forever, in that small stillness, where nothing needed deciding and the world outside couldn’t reach them.
“Night,” Nicholas whispered against his lips, his breath warm and close.
“Night,” Euijoo echoed, not moving, not yet.
They stood there for one more second, two, maybe three. Then Nicholas pulled away, his hand sliding out of Euijoo’s like it didn’t want to leave either. He turned without another word, disappearing back down the corridor with the slow, confident stride Euijoo had memorized by heart.
Euijoo watched him go, the ache of the moment settling behind his ribs. He turned to the Fat Lady, who was now conveniently pretending to be asleep.
“Password?” she asked, not bothering to open her eyes.
“Sweetfire,” Euijoo muttered.
The portrait swung open, and Euijoo stepped through, already feeling the loss of Nicholas’ hand in his. He didn’t know what he’d do yet. What he’d become. The future felt like a heavy coat he wasn’t ready to put on.
After that, the thought became almost obsessive: Fuma, and all the seventh years who had vanished into the war like smoke. The whispers of the Dark Lord’s movements, never confirmed but always felt. The letters from home—short, clipped things that said everything and nothing at once. His mother’s handwriting looked tight, rushed. His father’s never even made it to the page anymore. And in every letter, without fail, the same refrain echoed like a curse:
Stay alert.
It circled around his mind like a hawk. At meals. During class. In the dead hours of the night when everyone was already asleep across the dorm room and Euijoo lay awake, staring up at the stone ceiling, listening to the wind howl against the tower walls.
He started slipping—missing deadlines, zoning out in Divination, handing in essays with scribbled, half-hearted conclusions. Professors frowned. Maki had asked if he was okay, once or twice, but Euijoo had brushed him off. He didn’t feel like explaining the thrum of panic and pressure in his chest that never fully went away.
So when Professor McGonagall summoned him to her office a few weeks before the first round of exams, Euijoo was sure he was about to get a very sharp reminder of his responsibilities. He walked up the spiraling staircase to her office with dread in his stomach and excuses already forming on his tongue.
But when he stepped through the door, McGonagall didn’t scold him. She didn’t even look particularly angry. Her expression was something far more dangerous: calm, expectant.
“Sit down, Mr. Byun,” she said gently, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk.
Euijoo sat, stiff and unsure. The portraits of past headmasters watched him from their frames with various degrees of curiosity and boredom.
McGonagall folded her hands. “Tell me,” she said, “what do you want to do after Hogwarts?”
He blinked at her.
The question hit him like a gust of cold air. That question again. The same one that haunted him when he tried to fall asleep. The same one that hovered in the quiet moments with Nicholas, unspoken but alive in the spaces between them. The same one you ask a four-year-old at a family party, expecting answers like dragon tamer or Quidditch star.
But he wasn’t four. He was seventeen, and the world was burning.
Euijoo swallowed hard, his palms damp against the fabric of his trousers. McGonagall had watched him grow up—through first-year nerves, through heartbreaks, detentions, and house cup wins. She had always seemed immovable, a fixture of the castle itself. And now, standing in her office, Euijoo was struck by the strange comfort in knowing that neither of them had really changed. Not where it counted.
“I want to fight,” he said at last, the words trembling at the edges but steady at the core. “I want to go to war.”
The room went still.
For a moment, Euijoo thought he might be asked to repeat himself. McGonagall’s gaze was fixed on him, sharp and unreadable, her lips pressed into a tight line as though she were waiting for the punchline. But it didn’t come. And he didn’t take it back.
Her expression didn’t soften, but it did shift—just slightly. She removed her spectacles, folding them slowly as she leaned forward over her desk.
“There has to be something else, Mr. Byun,” she said quietly. “That’s not a foundation. That’s not a life.”
Euijoo bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the familiar swell of stubbornness rise in his chest. “But I want to be useful,” he insisted. “I want to fight—for my future, for everyone’s.”
“No,” McGonagall said firmly, and her voice cracked like a wand against stone. But there was no anger in it. No cold dismissal. Only concern. Fierce, maternal concern.
Euijoo opened his mouth, but she was already moving. From a drawer beneath her desk, she pulled out a thick, folded sheet of parchment, and slid it across to him. He looked down. It was a list—long, dense, hand-lettered in ink. Careers. Paths. He barely recognized some of them: spell architect, curse-breaker, broomsmith, magical ecologist. Others he’d heard in passing but never given a second thought. Each job had a small chart beside it listing the N.E.W.T. subjects and grades required.
“Take this,” she said, folding her hands once more. Her voice was still stern, but softened at the edges. “Look at it. Think about what comes after. Because there will be an after, Euijoo. After the war. And you’ll need more than a reason to fight. You’ll need a reason to stay.”
His throat felt tight. But something warm bloomed unexpectedly in his chest—hope, maybe. Or gratitude. He reached out and took the parchment carefully, as though it might burn.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall.”
He stood up, still clutching the paper like it meant something more than it should. And as he turned to leave, he felt her eyes following him—not in judgment or fear, but in quiet, unwavering care. Like she was holding him up just by seeing him clearly. Like a mother would.
Outside her office, the corridors felt a little less heavy.
It was an April morning
When they told us we should go
And as I turn to you, you smiled at me
How could we say no?
Oh, the fun to have
To live the dreams we always had
Oh, the songs to sing
When we at last return again
He met up with Maki and Nicholas in the library again. Maki was deeply engrossed in a thick, advanced textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. Nicholas, on the other hand, looked like he was losing a quiet war with his essay—parchment half-filled, ink smudged on the side of his hand. The library buzzed softly with the sound of quills scratching, hushed whispers, and the occasional creak of shifting chairs. Seventh years filled the tables, all consumed with the pressure of upcoming exams, desperate to leave behind more than just grades—wanting to be remembered, to matter.
Euijoo sank into the seat beside Maki, facing Nicholas across the table. His limbs felt heavier than usual, as if the conversation with McGonagall had physically aged him.
“Hey, mate,” Maki said, glancing up briefly, his voice low so as not to disturb the surrounding quiet. “How was it?”
Euijoo let out a long breath, scrubbing the back of his neck with one hand before answering. “I told her what felt right.”
Maki didn’t press further. He simply nodded, like he understood that ‘what felt right’ could mean a dozen different things. Maybe he did.
Across from him, Nicholas arched a brow, setting down his quill mid-sentence. He didn’t speak—he rarely did when it came to things like this—but his eyes lingered on Euijoo, steady and searching. It was a look Euijoo had come to know too well.
Nicholas always seemed to know more than he should when it came to Euijoo. As if he could see past the words, straight through to the storm underneath. And Euijoo, under that gaze, felt both seen and unraveled.
"I'm going to war."
The words hung in the air. Maki’s eyes widened slightly, his head lifting as he stared at Euijoo in disbelief. But beneath the surprise, there was something quieter in his expression—acceptance. Deep down, he'd known this was coming.
"This is our last year of school," Euijoo continued, his voice steady but low, eyes fixed somewhere on the edge of the table. He didn’t dare look at either of them, especially not Nicholas. "We’ll be of age soon. The war’s going to come for us no matter what. And we’ve been training for this, haven’t we? Since fifth year, with Dumbledore’s Army."
He paused, taking in a quiet breath. Then finally, he lifted his gaze and looked at them. Looked at him.
"I want our efforts to mean something."
Silence fell over the table again, the kind that wasn’t awkward but heavy—thick with unspoken thoughts. The library continued on around them, but it felt distant now. Faded.
Euijoo didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t even sure he should’ve said it out loud. He couldn’t decide if he should be looking at Nicholas the way he was now—like he was searching for a response behind those dark, unreadable eyes. Trying to read a mind that never gave itself away easily.
And yet, Nicholas didn’t look away.
"Geez, man," Maki finally sighed, closing his book with a quiet thud. He leaned back in his chair, then forward again to place a hand on Euijoo's shoulder. "I'll go with you, then. Can't let you have all the fun."
Euijoo turned to him, blinking in surprise. "What about your studies? And—your plans?"
"They can wait," Maki replied, giving Euijoo a tired but sincere smile. "Besides, I can't exactly work if the dark side wins, can I?"
Euijoo let out a soft breath, nodding. His lips curved into a small, grateful smile, though there was a trace of something careful in it—something protective. He was glad. More than glad. Maki offering to go with him brought a quiet sense of comfort, the kind he’d never dared ask for, not even in his most desperate moments. But it also unsettled him.
It meant more risk. More people he loved stepping into danger. It meant he wouldn’t be alone—but he wouldn’t be the only one paying the price, either.
"You're both stupid," Nicholas cut in, his voice sharp but wounded, his eyes fixed on them. "Are you even listening to yourselves?"
Maki stayed quiet, jaw tight. Euijoo opened his mouth to say something, but Nicholas didn’t let him.
"You can't always be the fucking hero," he snapped, eyes burning as they landed on Euijoo. "You’re… we’re..." His voice faltered, the sentence unraveling between anger and something far more fragile.
"You don't have to come," Euijoo said quietly, gaze dropping as he noticed a few heads turning their way. The weight of attention, the pressure of it all, made his voice softer than he meant it to be.
"Oh right, because that’s why I’m worried," Nicholas shot back, bitter but unmistakably protective. He scoffed, shaking his head, "You're hopeless, Byun."
But even as he said it, the words didn’t sting. They settled somewhere between affection and fear, as if Nicholas wasn’t angry at Euijoo, but terrified of what he might lose.
"You told me yourself," Euijoo murmured, his hazel eyes locking with Nicholas'. "We’ll be adults soon."
Nicholas let out a quiet huff, shaking his head as he frowned, staring down at his half-finished essay. Ink stained his fingers, a small mess compared to the storm in his expression. "Nothing’s gonna change your mind, huh?" he asked, his voice lower now, eyes flicking back up to meet Euijoo’s.
Euijoo didn’t answer, didn’t need to. The silence between them was thick with unspoken understanding. Maki glanced between them, watching the tension build like static in the air.
"I'll go too," Nicholas said suddenly.
Euijoo’s head snapped up. "What?"
"You heard me." Nicholas raised his chin, that signature aristocratic defiance settling over his features like armor. "Someone has to make sure neither of you idiots gets yourselves killed."
"But—" Maki started, but hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He looked between the two of them. "Your parents… your father—"
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, his smile bitter and tight. "Yeah. I’m not going to fight him. I don’t think I could." His voice softened just enough to betray the truth beneath it. "But I sure as hell won’t let him touch either of you."
For a moment, the weight of that settled over them.
Maki arched a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Since when did you develop such strong feelings for me?"
Nicholas rolled his eyes, already regretting the vulnerability. "Bugger off."
And Euijoo smiled—small and real—but somewhere beneath it, guilt tugged quietly at his chest. As much as it warmed him to know they’d come with him, part of him wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
Because now, it wasn’t just his fight.
It was theirs, too.
Slipping off a glancing kiss
To those who claim they know
Below the streets that steam and hiss
The devil's in his hole
Oh, to sail away
To sandy lands and other days
Oh, to touch the dream
Hides inside and is never seen, yeah